


Keeping Hope Alive

by WordlessPoet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Coda, Episode Related, Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Jack is a sweetheart, M/M, Mixtape, Post-Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, Sam Knows, Season 13 coda, Season/Series 13, Supernatural Coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordlessPoet/pseuds/WordlessPoet
Summary: As the pyre slowly burns out, Dean's hope dies with it. The immensity of his loss is crushing.Jack can’t help but notice Dean’s suffering and finds himself wanting to help.A coda to 13x01 because there is always hope to be found.





	Keeping Hope Alive

The flames have almost died down.

The crackling, making his ears ring and haunting Dean into a million nightmares yet to come, ebbs away, but the silence remaining is just as deafening.

The biting smoke clears slowly, allowing patches of sky to peek through. Smoke and ashes cling to Dean’s face as if to cover up the turmoil his skin can’t quite hide, his eyes can’t conceal. His eyes are burning. Burning with smoke, with fatigue, with tears shed, tears still unshed, Dean doesn’t know anymore.

They ache and pierce his skull, but he can’t tear his gaze away from the last embers clinging to life. Futile. The faint glow is already fading fast, the warmth receding. He has to watch, watch this till the end. Stay till the end, till there really is nothing left.

Nothing left to see. Nothing left to hold on to.

 

Dean just wishes he could force his eyes to close, shut the world out and go back. Back to not seeing, back to not knowing, back to not feeling. Back, back, back to before. Before this nightmare started, before all went to shit, before he failed to reach out a little more, failed to hold on tighter, failed to never let go. Back to before… Cas left.

Cas left.

Cas left him.

Cas left him again. And again. And again.

Cas left him for good this time.

The thought burns deep, dark and ugly, scarring what never had enough time to heal, again. It stirs the bubbling rage, the old fury and anger but it’s not enough to ignite the spark. Not this time. He is too cold, too tired, too heavy.

The orange glow is dim, almost gone completely.

Soon everything will be back to silence, to coldness, to darkness.

Soon everything of Cas will be gone.

 

There is that one patch of sky left in the distance. In this moment it has exactly the right color. Dean can still see it so clearly. This one shade of blue. Cas’ eyes alight with an unusual quiet joy as he plucks the tape out of Dean’s definitely not shaking hands.

“I just thought maybe you’d like that, you know as you’re driving around so much. Makes the time away seem shorter…”

The corners of Cas’ mouth lift ever so slightly into one of his rare smiles, there is a softness to it that tickles Dean’s insides until they’re tempted to laugh and dance in return. Cas does not know about the meaning behind mixtapes but he got the ‘makes you feel closer to home… closer to me’ that Dean swallowed before it even reached his tongue. Maybe he even got the ‘makes me feel closer to you’.

“Thank you Dean.”

 

Dean almost gags.

He can still see it. Those eyes burning with rage, with determination, with confidence. Clouded in shame, in guilt, in hopelessness. Dancing with joy, with pride, with happiness. Those eyes tearing through all the layers Dean put up to hide those parts he can’t bear to look at himself. Those eyes shrinking in confusion and incomprehension as his head tilts slightly. Dean can still see them softening around the edges in that fond look reserved for Dean only. He can still see them zoning in on him with that specific look only for him, for these moments, “Hello Dean”.

Those eyes looking up to the sky not seeing anything, a flat mirror. Dull. Empty. Dead.

Dean is choking.

There is no strength left in his legs, they buckle and force him to the ground. His body collapses in on itself, heaving for air that just won’t come. Breathe Dean, breathe.

But his chest is shrinking and the dark empty abyss within keeps expanding, swallowing everything. There is no room left for air, for breath. No strength left to gasp, to struggle, to go on.

The weight of the tape in his pocket is crushing.

Dean is caving in, is suffocating. Then he is breaking. He is cracking open loudly, shattering the quiet.

A scream. A sob. A cry. A wail. And “Cas”, “Cas”, “Cas.”

Forehead pressed to the cold hard ground, Dean’s voice hoarse and broken, tears fall. They leave dark spots in the ash covered soil. Every drop feels like it’s sweeping away little parts of him with it. Parts cut, carved and sliced out with a ragged, rusty knife. It’s a hellish pain he should be familiar with but isn’t, because this goes so far beyond his bodily sensations he almost wishes it would tear away pieces of flesh instead.

Even if it feels like there is nothing left to strip away, the pain doesn’t cease.

Unnoticed, the pyre is dead.

* * *

The first time Cas’ name is cried out in a voice so warped Sam barely recognizes it, he hurries to the window, pushing away the curtains to look for his brother. The second time Sam wishes he hadn’t. The sight greeting him pushes the carefully kept down, dark, searing lump back up his throat. His eyes prickle. He can’t remember ever seeing Dean like this, so… so completely and utterly…

“He is in pain.”

Jack's quiet voice startles Sam to tear his gaze away from the hunched figure kneeling in the ashes of everything he held dear, closer to his heart than he might have realized. Jack sits on his chair exactly like he sat down what feels like hours ago, ramrod straight and uncomfortable. It’s a sudden cruel reminder of an entirely different angelic being who did never shake a certain kind of stiffness. Jack’s gaze is trained on the wall behind Sam in concentration as if he can see Dean right through it. His brows are drawn in something matching worry tinged with disbelief.

“Sam,” Jack says with a certainty and urgency Sam can’t fully comprehend. “He is hurting. Bad. I… I can feel him. There is so much….”

His wide eyes, searching Sam for a reaction, are edged with fear, his hands and next words slightly shaking. “So much… Is he dying too?”

Not even knowing that it was still possible at this point in time, something inside Sam fractures a little more. Fissures edging deeper. Words are withering on his tongue.

“We need to help him! He can’t die too!” Jack is nearly pleading. As if there was a way.

“Castiel… Castiel didn’t want him to die,“ he murmurs. “He told me Dean is important. More important than anything else.”  

Sam squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to push the overwhelming grief back down. Breathe, Sam breathe.

Sam kneels down beside Jack and carefully puts a hand on his shoulder. “He won’t die, Jack,” he says, although right now he is not sure than Dean will quite live either. “But there is nothing we can do to ease his pain. There is nothing to ease this kind of pain but time.”

“But he is hurting so much.”

“I know.”

“So much more than you. Why?”

“Castiel was my friend…,” his voice falters a little, “he was like a brother and he was important to me.” And there it is, pushing hard against his tediously erected levee, pushing but not breaking through, not now, not yet. There are still two people left who need it to last, who need him now. Especially now. “But, Castiel told you that to him Dean was more important than anything else. Well, Dean might just have realized that it’s this way for him too. That Castiel was more important to him than anything else.”

Understanding surfaces through Jack’s fearful frown, “He loves him too?”

Sam is hurting for Dean like he never did before.

“Yeah Jack, I believe he does.”

 

Sam is almost afraid of what will come back trough the door as he hears feet stomping on the old wooden floor some time later. He doesn’t know what he expected, but when Dean enters the room he looks so much older than the years he carries, spend and used up. At the same time all Sam can see is a lost little boy, almost as if these long, long years in between never happened. He remembers that look. All those times Dean thought Sam didn’t see, all those times their dad went quiet for too long, left Dean with responsibilities he couldn’t possibly shoulder on his own. Sam always was good at picking up that look and it’s blaringly obvious to him right now, although Dean’s mask is already slipping back into place. He can see him retreating into his shell, fast, and this time Sam really is afraid that Dean will retreat so far, he may never crawl back out again.

It’s not the first time today, that Sam doesn’t know how to make his lips move, how to choose his words, what to say to his brother. Because there is nothing to say. So he doesn’t.

The hard line in Dean’s jaw tells Sam, that he doesn’t want words or comforting gestures. What he wants is space, is blind action and probably more alcohol than his body can handle. Sam can give that to him, give Dean the time and space he is asking for with an averted gaze and poorly hidden clenched fists. What Dean needs is something entirely different. Something Sam can’t give him no matter how much he wishes he could.

The moment he hears a chair scraping on the floor, Sam tenses. Jack doesn’t know that Dean is bound to explode like a cocked gun when he is like that. And Jack, with all his questions and frowns, his furrowed brows and stiff posture, with his naïve incomprehension, right now is a bad, bad idea. But there is no time to speak up.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack’s sincere words hang in the dusty room like the axe waiting to fall. The look Dean gives Jack should be murderous, but instead it’s just angry. A tired, subdued kind of angry. The kind that is excruciatingly difficult to watch.

“And for which part of this goddamn mess are you sorry for!?” Dean’s voice is hoarse and rasping, cracking under the strain of being too loud.

Jack just stares back calmly and unflinching, eerily familiar. “My father told me-“

“I don’t care what that son of a bitch told you!” Dean croaks, bruised knuckles white as his hands clench the back of an empty chair squeaking under the sudden pressure. “It doesn’t mat-“

“Not him,” Jack interrupts. “Castiel is the father I chose.”

Dean’s hands go slack and slide back to his sides in a feeble motion. His face is drained of all color, his red swollen eyes a stark contrast against his skin suddenly white as a sheet.

“Castiel told me that in the world he wished for, in the world he worked for, in the world he… died for, that in that world the thing he wished for most was to see you happy.” Jack tilts his head with a sad expression. “And I’m sorry, that I can’t help you. That I can’t make your hurt go away. I’m sorry that I can’t stop your pain.”

There is a slight tremble to Dean’s bottom lip, the only thing moving in the wide-eyed mask his face froze into. Not even a sound is left in the room as Dean slowly turns and walks away.

If he didn’t know better, Sam would say Dean left his heart and soul behind in that place.

 

The drive back to the bunker is quiet. The arrival is silent. In the weeks that follow Dean is barely alive.

* * *

It’s the smell of vomit and the biting stench of alcohol that drives Dean out of his room and into the shower. The brightly lit corridors of the bunker hurt his eyes, but at least they’re not spinning anymore. Dean ran out of alcohol a short while ago. Sam stopped bringing back beer and bottles with their groceries.

The deliciously warm water does nothing to soothe the ache buried in his bones and it does even less for the ache etched even deeper. Far, far beyond mending. But it made him presentable enough that Dean dares to make a detour to the kitchen. He takes the long way, so he doesn’t have to pass that door. He made it clear, that no one is allowed in there, especially not Jack. Dean stood before that door once, fingers almost touching the knob. He didn’t try again.

The kitchen is thankfully empty, so Dean feels safe to take his time, pull himself a mug of coffee, make himself some sandwiches and sit down. His respite doesn’t last long, soon Sam and Jack walk into the room having one of their many conversations he never bothered to listen to. A tiny part of him knows that he should show more interest in the spawn of Satan turned foster man-child. A horribly wounded part of him knows he should take more interest in the one thing Cas left in his care. And a hurtful voice whispers ‘Take care of Cas’ son.’

Every time that voice haunted him enough to make him try, the similarities were just too much. Dean couldn’t bear to look at Jack only to see Cas staring back. The worst part of it is that Jack still tries hard to win his approval. Jack’s hopeful looks are the kind of torture even Alistair couldn’t think of.

Their chatter dies as they spot Dean, but he just continues eating. He doesn’t need another one of those looks Sam throws him. He can’t stomach another attempt at approaching Jack.

As it turns out he doesn’t get a say in that matter. Silently relieved that he managed this trip without conversation he is caught by one of Jack’s enquiring glances. The moment his head tilts, Dean is hit with an entirely different image. That one carries a smile, tentative but growing till it’s nearly dazzling, and blue eyes crinkling with something unspoken. The world blurs around the edges and Dean’s thoughts center on the one thing repeated more often that Cas’ mixtape.

He never knew. He never knew. He never knew.

A warm hand on his shoulder startles him and it’s not Sam looking up at him and shaking him lightly. Jack’s worried “Dean” barely registers as Dean is fixed on Jack’s fingers resting where Cas’ handprint used to be. The urge to shake them off is overwhelming, but a sharp indrawn breath takes him back to Jack’s face instead. His eyes are huge as they stare at Dean in disbelief and wonder. A silent joy dawns on his features, a smile spreading so wide Dean barely recognizes him.

Jack never looked more happy and he whispers almost reverently, “He’s still here.”

He finally lets go of Dean’s shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s still here. He was here all along!”

“Jack, who’s here?” Sam throws in tentatively.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean supplies.

Jack looks between Sam and Dean and fixates Dean with shining eyes. “Cas.”

There is a mug splintering on the tiled floor, but Dean doesn’t even look down. “What…? What are you…? What?”

“I felt him, when I touched your shoulder. His grace. There is a piece of Cas’ grace inside you. It was there all along. I didn’t know…” His brow furrows and he trails off.

Dean feels like he is awake for the first time in weeks. “What does that mean?”

“There is a piece of Cas living on within you Dean. And it’s still connected to him I felt him reaching out but he can’t come back on his own. But I can… I can call him back to this piece of his grace. I know it. I… don’t know how yet. But I know I can.”

Dean barely dares to ask. “You sure?”

Jack smiles again, “I promise Dean. I will find out how to give Cas back to you.”

It’s the first time that looking at Jack makes Dean see the child Cas cared for.

“I promise Dean.”

It can’t be called a smile yet, but Dean can feel his mouth relax into a softer line.

It can’t be called a tiny little flame yet, but there is a hot spark glowing in the darkness.

It can’t be called relief yet, but there is something breaking the stasis, there is something pulling Dean forwards.

There is finally something making him think, that maybe… just maybe there is a way left to go.

Finally. Finally.

 

There is hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself with this heart and soul crushing episode.  
> I hope you found a little piece of hope with it :)
> 
> As english is not my fist language feel free to point out those weird word creations of mine.


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